


The Hedonic Calculus of Cuddling

by verdant_fire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Cuddling & Snuggling, Devious Sherlock, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mathematics, Non-Sexual Intimacy, POV Sherlock Holmes, Philosophy, Sherlock vs John's Fragile Masculinity, The Great Snuggle Scheme of 2k16, and the misuse thereof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 23:17:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7334965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verdant_fire/pseuds/verdant_fire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock accidentally discovers the therapeutic benefits of touching John, and sets out to replicate his findings. He neglects, however, to tell John first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hedonic Calculus of Cuddling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [biswholocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/gifts).



> Thanks to [GoldenUsagi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenUsagi/pseuds/GoldenUsagi) for the beta, and [hedonic calculus](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Felicific_calculus) for the idea. :)

His mind is going to get him killed someday, or worse, get John killed.

John could be in any one of these abandoned buildings with a killer who ambushes his victims from behind, and Sherlock has to find him first, he has to _think_ , but he can't think of anything useful, only the knowledge of everything that might have gone wrong, that could be going wrong _right now_. There are so many ways that even someone as competent and combat-ready as John can be taken by surprise, hurt, killed, and Sherlock cannot think past the images and the urgency and the, yes, all right, the _fear_. They're all overloading his instrument, and he's paralysed and drowning in static, but he can do this, he has to, it's _John_. John is essential, and so Sherlock takes a shuddering breath, puts his back against a sturdy, dirty brick wall, and goes to his mind palace. 

He hasn't studied this killer long enough to be sure which way he would go, but he knows John, and John, when stalking someone who was stalking him, would have stayed in cover, would have kept to the higher ground with a vantage point where he'd have a clear shot. Given the surrounding streets and the direction John would have come from, that leaves only one building, and Sherlock rushes for it, heedless. He shoulders past the door hanging off its hinges and inside, slowing just enough to start searching for signs of life, signs of John, when he hears an ominous thump from the far end of the hall. He sprints for it, practically falls through the door, and nearly stumbles in relief at the sight of John, seemingly unharmed, with the killer unconscious and bloodied on the floor in front of him. John is tying the killer's wrists behind him with one of the zip ties he's taken to carrying around, another extension of his practicality. John straightens up, short and unafraid and perfect, and grins at him. "What took you so long?"

Sherlock is across the room before he even realises it, stepping none-too-gently on the prone body of the killer on the way. He grabs John by the shoulders to turn his body square to Sherlock's, looking him over with eyes and hands, circling him, patting him down to check for hidden injuries, and not pausing for breath until he's sure that John emerged intact. John looks surprised but lets it happen, and his bemused expression turns to concern when Sherlock realises that his own limbs are trembling, just slightly, from the adrenaline comedown now that it's over and John is still alive. He's always hated that his body betrays him this way, but he's never been able to stop it happening, so he normally settles for hiding it. But he can't hide from John, here, now, and a small, reckless part of him doesn't even wish to, so he forces himself to meet John's eyes again and sees only gentleness and affection.

Sherlock starts babbling immediately, his mouth barrelling forward without his mind's permission. "I — apologise for losing you, he distracted me just long enough to separate us and pursue you, and Lestrade hadn't arrived, so I was — concerned that the killer might have taken you by surprise, which would be unacceptable, and I was — alarmed. I'll be better prepared next time."

"Sherlock," John says softly, "it's all right. Look, I'm fine. Just some bruising; he knocked me against a skip and I fell, but it's not serious. You checked me yourself. What about you, though? You're shaking. Have you eaten today?" John starts checking him over, running hands lightly over his sides and tilting his head up to check pupil dilation, and Sherlock breathes out in a rush.

It's too much, the belated relief of it, so Sherlock sags forward into John, stumbling a bit, and rests his forehead on John's sturdy shoulder, just above where his gunshot scar must be. John goes rigid for a moment, but after that pause, his arms come up to circle Sherlock's waist and back, and then they're hugging for the first time, and _oh_. Sherlock can feel his trembling start to subside, and smell John's homey, woolly, gun-oil scent. Most shockingly, Sherlock's brain is slowing down, not in an impaired way, but in a calm, clear, still-water sort of way that is so exceedingly rare he wasn't sure he was capable of it anymore, and certainly not naturally. His mind hasn't been this uncluttered since he was small enough to be bundled into Mummy's arms when he was distressed. He feels the last of the nervous tension leave his body, in remarkably short time, and quickly organises the remaining facts of the case in his mind palace while marvelling at how John is the perfect height to serve as a brace for Sherlock this way. John holds on for a bit longer — it might be seconds or minutes — before patting Sherlock's back and letting go.

John clears his throat, clearly a bit uncomfortable at the display of emotion, but not regretful as far as Sherlock can discern.

"All right, Sherlock? You're eating as soon as we get home," he adds sternly, and Sherlock nods.

"Yes, fine. I'm not hungry," he sulks, but it's a token protest and they both know it. 

"Too bad," John says, somehow managing to smile at him through a stern frown while he moves to lean against the wall, taking up watch over the killer in case he regains consciousness.

Sherlock moves to stand next to him while they wait for Scotland Yard, and starts planning. If their brief hug was any indication, John could be the best means of mood regulation Sherlock has found since he was a child. This requires much more study. Is it only hugs that have this calming effect? Would other forms of non-sexual physical contact have the same result? He's already designing the experiments in his head. John has already proven himself a marvel, but now he may prove capable of increasing Sherlock's case-solving brilliance even more. Conductor of light, indeed.

The way forward is obvious, then. He'll just have to figure out how to get John to touch him again.

//

When they get home, he allows John to order takeaway and feed him some of it, because John, in addition to needing regular danger, also needs to take care of people. Sherlock has determined that it makes John feel necessary and needed, which of course he is, but since Sherlock is perhaps not as good as he could be at communicating this truth in a way that won't embarrass them both, eating John's food is an efficient way to express it. Additionally, while Sherlock does not, strictly speaking, need to be cared for, he finds he doesn't mind the caring when John does it. It makes him feel needed too, so he eats the food, enjoying the companionable silence.

"Well, I think I'm for bed," John announces not long after. Sherlock notes the way John's favouring his right shoulder and feels a twinge of concern.

"John, are you sure you're all right?"

John grunts as he stands from his chair. "Yeah, just sore. But if you want to help, you could fetch me the paracetamol and have a quick look at my back to make sure nothing broke the skin. I can't quite see it in the mirror."

Sherlock swallows. "Yes, fine." He pops into the loo for the medicine while John drags himself up the stairs.

When Sherlock climbs up to John's bedroom with the pills and a glass of water, John's waiting for him, having just plugged in his mobile to charge. Sherlock passes the water to John, who swallows the pills, gingerly takes his shirt off, and kneels on the bed. The bruising starts between John’s shoulder blades, near the T5 vertebra, and extends up his back and onto the nape of his neck. There’s darker, livid aubergine blood pooling under his skin, forming an outline to match the edge of the skip that John was thrown against. Sherlock sits down behind him for a closer look. He can feel the heat radiating from John’s skin, the inflammatory response as John’s body tries to rebuild damaged tissues.

“Sherlock? How does it look?”

Sherlock considers. The urge to touch John, to check the integrity of his skin with his fingers and verify that it's really whole and healing, to feel the tiny fine hairs and the small variations in texture, not to mention the scar that brought him back to London, is novel and nearly overwhelming. It’s not sexual, but he wants the tactile connection, the visceral reassurance that John will be fine, that he’s still here with Sherlock and not lying broken in an alley. But John’s present and breathing steadily, still waiting for his response. 

“The skin doesn’t appear to be broken, just badly bruised," Sherlock confirms. "How’s the pain?”

John flexes his shoulders experimentally and lets out a small pained grunt. “It still aches quite a bit, but the paracetamol should kick in soon. I’ll be sore for a while, but I’ll manage. It could’ve been much worse.”

Sherlock swallows. “Yes.” He experiences a stab of guilt at the mention of pain meds, since he’s the reason they don't have anything stronger in the flat. This, combined with Sherlock’s intense relief that John is all right and not brain-damaged or worse, leads unexpectedly to Sherlock leaning into John’s back, forehead resting at the base of John’s neck and breathing onto John’s spine while trying not to hyperventilate. He clenches his hands in the sheets to prevent them from clamping onto John without his permission.

“Sherlock?” John’s shoulders tense slightly under the contact, but he stays still. “What are you doing?” It’s not judgemental, just careful and a bit wary, but Sherlock comes back to himself immediately, horrified at having so little control over his body that he ended up tilted against John’s back, as if Sherlock’s foundation had shifted.

He’s up and off the bed before John can even properly turn his head, but Sherlock hears John call his name as he all but trips down the stairs.

//

He succumbs to the tactile impulse again in the kitchen the next morning, however. John is at the counter, putting the kettle on, and he's still slow and groggy with sleep. His brassy hair is sticking up in a cowlick behind his right ear. Sherlock wonders what it feels like to touch, so he puts one hand on John's shoulder to hold him still and reaches his other hand out to sink his fingertips into John's hair. John freezes for a few seconds while Sherlock catalogues the haptic feedback. John's hair is warm with the heat of his scalp and springs back slightly to the touch. It's softer than it looks. He briefly lets his palm cup the curve of John's skull. It's smaller, but nicer to touch than Sherlock's friend the skull. He feels John's shoulder twitch under his fingers, as if he's not sure whether to shake Sherlock off or not.

"Sherlock, um. Why are you stroking my hair?"

"I'm straightening it. You had a piece sticking up."

"Yeah, it does that," John says, a bit testily. He stretches up onto his toes to reach for their mugs, bringing the crown of his head level with Sherlock's eyes. "We don't all spend an hour and six products on our hair in the morning."

Sherlock sniffs. "I do not spend an hour on my hair. It does this naturally."

John turns, dislodging Sherlock's hands, and regards him with what Sherlock considers unwarranted amusement. "Sure it does. I guess the shelf full or hair care products in the loo is just for show, then?"

"They're for an experiment. And for disguises."

John just smiles, and gets the tea bags out.

//

The next day, while John is reading his morning paper, Sherlock makes a more concerted attempt.

"John. John. John."

John glares at him over the top of the newspaper, his hair still damp and tousled from his shower. "What, Sherlock."

Sherlock puts on his best sad, pleading expression. "John. I think I might have a bruised rib from the chase. You should probably check. In the interest of medical thoroughness."

John sighs in a rather insultingly put-upon manner, but drops the paper. "You were fine when I checked you the other day. Does something hurt? Are you having trouble breathing?"

"I — not exactly," Sherlock hedges, "but I still think you should check."

"Fine," John says, hoisting himself out of his chair. "Can you stand up?"

"Yes," Sherlock allows, and does so. "Should I take my shirt off?"

John snorts. "No, you can keep your clothes on. Just hold still." John sweeps his hands over Sherlock's ribcage, prodding and pressing lightly, but unsurprisingly finding nothing. "Your ribs feel fine to me, Sherlock. Seriously, does something hurt? Did you fall or run into anything?"

"No, I — just wanted to be sure," he says, and John looks at him a bit suspiciously. "Better safe than sorry."

John laughs outright, his eyes crinkling up charmingly at the corners. "Yeah, that's definitely your life motto. All right, then?"

"Yes, I suppose so. Thank you," he adds, at which John looks at him even more suspiciously but returns to his chair.

Interesting. The sensations of John's hands sweeping his ribs were pleasant enough, but nowhere near their earlier calming intensity. While it's possible the stressful situation contributed to the hug's anxiolytic effects, he'd rather not repeat that part of the experiment, so he'll concentrate on the rest of it. Maybe it has to be reciprocal contact for it to work? They were essentially holding on to each other, after all.

This calls for more planning. 

//

Fortunately, it's January, just after New Year's.

On their next case, Sherlock accidentally-on-purpose falls into the Thames. (He takes his coat off first; he'd managed to find an excuse for that much.) He didn't intend for John to jump in after him, especially since Sherlock is an excellent swimmer, but John's concern and the urgency with which he pulled Sherlock from the water were nonetheless reassuring. Sherlock can still salvage this.

When they get home, John shoves him into the shower and starts a fire. They weren't in the water long enough for a real risk of hypothermia, but the hot water is borderline-painful when it hits Sherlock's skin, tingling and biting as it raises his core temperature. After he feels almost back to normal, Sherlock dries off, throws on pyjamas, and pads out to the living room, where John is bundled up in a blanket. John goes for his turn in the shower while Sherlock gathers all the extra blankets he can find, builds a haphazard nest out of them, and lies in wait, figuratively speaking. He arranges himself at the end of the sofa under the blanket from John's chair, which still smells faintly of him.

"You git, you took my blanket. Budge up," John says when he returns. Sherlock blinks his drooping eyelids open and looks as immovable and languid as possible.

"We can share," he murmurs, and burrows deeper into the blankets.

"Did you really take every blanket in the flat? Including the one from my bed?"

"I was cold," Sherlock protests, as pathetically as he can manage, and lifts a corner of his blanket cocoon. "If we share body heat, we'll recover more quickly. It's science, John."

John huffs his exasperated-but-secretly-fond sigh. "You're impossible. Well, if it's _science_." He flops down on the sofa next to Sherlock and pulls some of the blankets off of him. He's sitting close enough to provide some warmth, but they're not actually touching. Yet. "Are you sitting on the telly remote?"

Sherlock shifts his bum experimentally. "Ah. Yes." He fishes it out from where it's fallen between the cushions. "I'll give it to you if you promise not to watch a Bond film. Or anything that claims to be 'reality'. And come _here_ , John, we can't share heat if you're sitting so far away."

John huffs again, but shifts closer so their sides are pressed together. Sherlock has found that John is much more pliable when given a chance to blame Sherlock for 'making' him do something he'd rather wanted to do, but would never do on his own due to appearances or gender roles or other such rubbish that Sherlock can't be expected to bother with. John shifts to look at him askance.

"You claim to hate Bond films, but last week I heard you playing the theme from _Goldfinger_ on your violin."

Sherlock sniffs. "I can't help it if I have an excellent memory and superior musical skill. I certainly deleted the rest of the movie."

John smiles at him with only his eyes. "Fine. We can watch _Wrath of Khan_. You might only complain through half of that one."

Sherlock sighs his most put-upon sigh, but once they've watched the first few scenes and he's protested the shoddy science and multiple impossibilities, John relaxes against him in a way that feels as right as springing the last tumbler of a lock. Sherlock rearranges himself to pull his arm out of the blanket cocoon and lay it along the back of the sofa, which also happens to be behind John's shoulders. John stiffens and looks over, but Sherlock remains impassive. "My arm was going numb," he provides, which isn't even a lie, and John gradually unstiffens, having found this an acceptable excuse for what his awful father would have called 'unmanly' touching. Sherlock breathes out in relief and goes back to cheerfully eviscerating the movie, which John good-naturedly protests but is clearly entertained by. 

Sherlock feels warm and relaxed and — he has to search for the word — _content_. While this lacks the sharp relief of the crime scene contact, there's a whole different warmth in the knowledge that John trusts him enough even for this, this contact that he wouldn't give to any other friend, especially not a male one. It's the sort of trust that makes Sherlock want to live up to it. And also, of course, to have this again. While he's aware that he touches few people and seldom, he didn't expect what a beneficial effect introducing physical contact would have on his well-being, and also, it seems, on John's. They are mammals, after all, so perhaps he shouldn't find the oxytocin release of social bonding such a surprise, but it's his most unexpected finding in years.

Sherlock could easily become accustomed to this. He rarely touches anyone, unless it's necessary for a case, but touching John produces an extraordinary sense of satisfaction and warmth, like playing violin in the lamplight while John watches. There are no mathematics that can explain it, though something more subjective like hedonic calculus or Maslow's hierarchy of needs might come close. He's been building a battalion of supporting arguments in case John protests, in case he demands a reason why. Sherlock doesn't want to lose this.

From then on, he plots daily about how to engineer prolonged contact with John.

//

"John," he complains the next day, swooning onto the sofa next to him, "my head hurts."

John blinks down at him suspiciously. "There's paracetamol in the loo."

"Tried that. Didn't help. I think you should — "

"For God's sake, Sherlock, I'm not going to kiss it better!" John tenses, clearly ready to fend Sherlock off if necessary.

Now it's Sherlock's turn to blink. Possibly worth trying once as an experiment, but "That's not at all what I had in mind. Though if _you_ want to — "

"No! No. Um, no thank you?" John flushes bright red. Sherlock decides to put him out of his misery by sparing him further talking. He unceremoniously grabs John's free hand and places it in his hair. "Just this."

John swallows. "Oh, you want me to — ah, okay. Okay then." John's fingers start to stroke hesitantly through his hair, and Sherlock has to clamp down on a whimper of pleasure. It makes him feel like he's floating, like every inflamed neuron is being soothed into submission. It's bliss.

Everything is so much quieter in his head now. His brain never, ever shuts off, and when it's harnessed to a case, it makes him brilliant, but if it's not constantly occupied, it cannibalises itself, recursive bad memories and corrosive what-ifs spiralling down into infinity. He'd given up hope of ever being able to slow it down by legal means, but physical contact with John seems to do it. He hasn't had access to this kind of regular touch in decades, and he'll take as much advantage of it as John will allow.

"That programme you like is on," he offers, magnanimous in victory.

"Which one?"

"The one with the loud man and the ridiculous cars. I can't be expected to remember the title."

"Oh, ta," John says, and rummages for the remote. This briefly causes the hair stroking to stop, at which Sherlock pushes his head up into John's hand, annoyed. John huffs out a brief laugh and resumes stroking while he turns the telly on. Sherlock stretches out full-length, draping his legs over the end of the sofa, and turns his face contentedly into John's stomach while John's sturdy fingers sort through his curls.

//

Two evenings later, in a rare case of other people making themselves useful, Harry phones John, who is foolish enough to pick up out of guilt, even though their conversations never go well. It devolves into a shouting match within ten minutes and leaves John pacing and fuming in the kitchen, looking ready to throw his mobile out the window.

Sherlock considers. Comforting physical contact is generally thought of as a beneficial response to a friend in distress. Therefore, he joins John in the kitchen, approaching slowly so as not to spook him, and hugs him awkwardly around the shoulders, patting his back a few times for good measure. John stills, surprised, but extricates his arms after a few seconds and brings them up loosely around Sherlock's waist, and then they're hugging properly.

It's lovely, actually: the soft nubbly cables of John's oatmeal jumper under his fingertips, snagging just slightly on his violin calluses; the comforting smell of John, of home, wool and tea and gun oil mixed up with the faint tang of chemicals and the musty smell of old wallpaper overlaid with the scents of wood and rosin. John's body heat bleeding through his clothes, just a bit hotter than average. The hesitant shift of John's shoulders, not exactly uncomfortable but still unused to this, still wondering if this is really within the bounds of 'things mates do' and whether Sherlock will take it the wrong way (which is ridiculous, since Sherlock has no more than a passing academic interest in John's penis and certainly no sexual designs on it). 

John, though, seems to have made his decision, and after a moment, his shoulders gradually relax under Sherlock's chin. Sherlock slumps nearly all of his weight into John, pleased and feline with smug triumph. John, he knows, has filed this under 'odd things he only does with Sherlock and never speaks of to others'. John's chest expands against his in a put-upon sigh, but the weak protest is undercut somewhat by the way John's head lists slightly into his, almost unaware, but John doesn't pull it back. Sherlock can feel the tips of his curls drag against John's shorter, bristlier hair. John's body curves around his, sweet with acceptance, a refuge for Sherlock's redlining brain. John's breath has evened out, and his heartbeat has slowed enough to indicate true relaxation.

"Um. Thank you?" John says, and leans back a bit to free himself from Sherlock's arms. "Sorry. I don't know why I keep trying with her sometimes. She's too stubborn for her own good."

Sherlock blinks at this pronouncement, and keeps his opinions regarding Watson stubbornness to himself.

"Anyway," John continues, looking him in the eye, "it's nice that you tried to help, so — thanks." He nods once, definitively, and leaves the room.

//

Since things have been progressing so well, Sherlock allows what he deems a suitable adjustment period — surely another week of regular contact should be enough for even John's slower brain to acclimate — before he crawls into John's bed at three in the morning. John's bed is an immediate improvement over his own, due to the presence of John in it. He nuzzles into the John-scented pillow and resolves to buy John better sheets. These can't have a thread count higher than three hundred, and he strongly suspects they're at least thirty percent polyester, for God's sake. He shudders, and John freezes, coming instantly awake.

"Sherlock. When I said, 'Get some sleep', I didn't mean with me."

"Well, where else am I supposed to sleep?"

"In _your bed_ , Sherlock, you do have one."

"But I'm more comfortable here."

"Has it occurred to you that sharing a bed is not something friends and flatmates usually do?"

"Dull social conventions have never stopped us before. You usually rather like it when I ignore them."

John starts muttering under his breath. It sounds intriguingly like very creative swearing.

"Sherlock. God knows I don't want to talk about this either, but I just need to check — are you — is this — _why_ do you want to share the bed? And, well — _cuddle_ , like we've been doing?"

Sherlock makes an involuntary sound of disgust at John's terminology.

"You needn't worry about your virtue, John. If you must know, it makes everything — quieter. In my brain. You can't know what it's like, having everything in your head at once. The physical contact makes it more bearable. And you didn't seem to mind it either," he adds, a trifle defensively.

"I — yeah, okay. I suppose I didn't, at that. And I have some idea what it's like to be trapped in your own brain, thanks ever so. It's hell. Is that the only reason?"

"Yes. Well, and the data gathering aspect is also interesting. Did you know your left shoulder is lower than your right by three centimetres?"

John lets out a single sharp giggle into his pillow. "Christ. No, I did not know that, but trust you to measure that kind of thing. I — ah. Okay, then. Go to sleep."

Sherlock blinks. "But you said — "

"It's all right, Sherlock," John mumbles, already pulled towards sleep again. "If the touching helps, that's — good. But not in front of Mrs Hudson," he adds. "Or in public."

"Yes, fine."

"Night," John says, and falls back asleep with the combined ease of a soldier and a doctor.

"Not yet," Sherlock protests. He lets his breathing slow to match John's while he collects his thoughts.

Being this close, being let inside someone else's defences, close enough to kill — he wouldn't, ever, but he could — makes his chest fill with a curious warmth, a sense of belonging he barely recognises. It's an entirely different thing to be touched by John, awkwardly but with a careful sincerity, than it is to touch him on cases, just long enough to move him out of the way or drag him along, expecting to hear the bleat of 'not gay!' at any moment. But he never expected that John's protests would have a loophole, that if he genuinely thought of the touch as therapeutic, he would override his own hang-ups for Sherlock's sake. 

When John moved in, Sherlock thought it would be temporary, only a matter of time before John had enough of him and moved out. Instead, John stayed and filled up the space as no one ever had. He had made Sherlock's house into a home, simply because John was in it. It was like having a second, moveable hearth that warmed more deeply than a fire ever could.

On the whole, Sherlock strongly suspects this is what sustained happiness feels like. While it could be construed as sad that he doesn't know for sure, it's certainly a welcome novelty.

After a few more minutes of listening to John's steady breaths, Sherlock lets his eyes slip shut and starts to drift, secure in the knowledge of John in his rightful place: next to Sherlock. He floats away on the tide of sleep, and dreams of thrilling chases, the choral, cloistered hum of bees, and his longest-term experiment yet.


End file.
